We are gathered in a studio, hands on knees
in plaid suits and wide ties, blond flattop hair.
Like door-to-door religious salespeople seriously
discussing whether there is another
with whom we can communicate
or, if we can only get through to ourselves
that this then is eternal loneliness.
Exposed brick ascends to a loft
with piano and music sheets, bales of hay.
Someone delivers drinks on a tray
as firelight overtakes daylight —
like an advertisement for alcohol or tobacco.
The world exists prior to our perception of it
croons the boss into a microphone
before the threshold of feeling.
This is the realm of pure fiction.
We have to let things look at us
in order to see, then see our seeing.
We define ourselves in others' eyes
herein is hearsay characterised. We have to find
in the other's eyes selflove and gratitude
© Graham Lindsay